Accounts of Hyatha Sneak
by Lord Jake the Warrior
Summary: Part of my Surge Chronicles saga. The End of the World started, as these things often do, when a girl met a boy.


**Accounts of Hyatha**

**Chapter 1**

**A Boy**

I don't know when to begin this story.

I mean, I can't start it at the beginning, or we'll be here all day. I can't start it at the end, or it won't make sense.

I suppose I should start with me, since I know that part the best.

Hello. My name, at this particular point in our story anyway, is Grace. Grace Hawthorn, at your service. My mum certainly was.

My mum was... Well there are several names for what mum did, most of them rude, all of them insulting. Let's settle with Woman of Questionable Morals. I never knew my Dad, which is hardly surprising. Regardless of your family situation, I doubt you've ever truly hated a parent. Even Ray never really hated his parents. But I did. I hated them. Both of them. I hated dad for running off and leaving me and mum. I hated mum for never wanting me, for calling my very existence a mistake. Have you any idea how hard it is, putting up with your mother calling you a mistake, an accident, a stain on her very existence, for three years? Oh, yes, only for three years. Then mum died. In a drunk driver accident. With herself as the instigator. The other participant was a boy, six years old. Dennis, his name was. It's strange, considering it, that I can't remember my mum's face, let alone her name, but I remember every single detail of Dennis', even though I only saw a photo of him on his grave. It's also curious to consider that I, a three year old girl, didn't shed a single tear at my own mother's funeral, but cried buckets at Dennis'.

Anyway, after mum died, I was put into foster care. There are several things that reflect Hell in this world, and the late 21st Century British Foster System is most of them. I was bounced back and forth between several foster parents, all of whom expected a bright, happy three-year-old, but instead got the sullen, moody teenager in three-year-old body. Eventually, I was put in Hawthorne Care Home in York, which was up on a prison only in two factors: First, the food was marginally better, and second, most of the children weren't homicidal maniacs.

It was interesting that the two people who ran the care home-Mr and Mrs Travers-insisted that we were a 'family'. Hence my last name coincidentally being exactly the same as the home. I've really got to stop saying that. Home. Don't make me laugh. There was nothing family like about Hawthorne. Like I said, only marginally better than a prison. Hell, prisoners have more freedom. Prisoners don't have no hope of being adopted because two grasping wretches are slowly draining off the meagre amount of money the UG had set aside for us.

Ah, yes. Sorry, I forgot. You lot probably don't know what the UG is, do you? I'd better explain.

Whilst I was being abused by my mother and my father was probably drinking himself silly in a bar, the world was changing. All of America and most of Europe was under the control of the UG (Unified Government) Everywhere else, however, was under the control of the LG (Liberal Government) Basically, old issues had sprouted up, with the Americans (Who led the UG) toeing the line with the Russians (Who were at the head of the LG). Eventually, five months before my mum was impregnated by one of her 'clients', the toeing became more serious. Finally, on 11th September 2085, whilst I was in my mother's womb, the entire world fell to war.

I can't describe to you what the war was like. Not because It was indescribable, but because I don't have anything to compare it to. Throughout the thirteen years that separate my birth from the year this story takes place, all I knew was war-time Britain. Not, mind you, that Britain existed. In the late 21st Century, Britain, France, Germany, Spain, all were part of the Unified Countries. You were more likely to find an American on the streets of London than a Briton. Nationalism no longer existed, unless you were an American. But enough of this. Perhaps I should start the story.

The end of the world began, as things usually do, when a boy met a girl.


End file.
